It doesn't happen much these days but in my childhood, on breezy afternoons in the spring, my grandma would open all the doors and windows and let the Carolina air flow throughout the house. I was free to go in and out at my leisure, so long as I stayed in the yard.

Most of the time, I would stand outside picking crab apples off the tree in the front yard. Some days, I'd just watch bugs crawl in and out of the rotting fruit that'd fallen to the earth. On one particular day, I grew bored of this and walked inside seeking entertainment. As I stepped in, I heard a woman's voice floating down from one of the bedrooms. I walked by the staircase and saw my grandparents' bedroom door wide open, sunlight pouring into the hallway. Music swelled behind the woman's voice as she sang longingly in a language I did not understand. Her vibrato bounced off of the walls and rode the breeze down into my ears. The notes she held were endless, and I stood and listened before going on my way.

My grandparents' love for opera and classical was nothing new. They cared very little for the noise of contemporary artists, and took great joy in easy listening or antiquated musicals. The two were deceptively intellectual and artistically-minded, qualtities I did not fully appreciate until adulthood.

The reason this sticks out is because it is the only moment I can recall in which I took the time to just....be. It was not a concious effort, simply a point in time in which there was no more than an operatic cry, a breeze on my skin and the crsip smell of spring in the air. Sometimes, I go back to this memory and am small child looking up into the hallway. Other times, I am an adult watching myself experience bliss for the very first time.

When asked about a happy place, this is where I go. I came across a passage in a Hermann Hesse novel in which hearing a symphony is described as a transcendent experience that quickly gives way to a dream-like state. When I read this, my brain shifted to that old memory, and I was forced to set the book down and revisit my early glimmers of transcendence.

Papa died five years ago. Grandma is still here. She doesn't hear so well anymore, and so their old records are in the basement collecting dust. She chills easily, and so the windows stay closed, even on temperate days.

I moved back into the house a year ago, and brought a record player of my own. I plugged it up next to Grandma's favorite chair and every once in a while, I put on something I think she'll like. Luckily, she tends to hear the music just fine. And every time she listens, I secretly hope to catch her looking up the stairs into the hallway and catch sunlight pouring from her room.

Alex was the first true friend I made when I moved to Myrtle Beach. He opened me up to hip-hop, The Boondocks, and marijuana. His smile was big, his laugh infectious. We didn't talk as much once he left the neighborhood, but he would still take the time to check in here and there. The last two times we spoke on the phone, he was high out of his mind. I thought he'd just gotten caught up in life, but it turned out he'd gotten caught up with something stronger. I saw him once before he died, when he left for the Army. He was clean and had cut off his signature dreadlocks. The last time I saw his face was in an open coffin. His service was in a small funeral home just off the highway. I made sure all the former kids from the nieghborhood got an obituary if they couldn't make it. His mom was honest in her suspicion as to cause of death, but she refused the autopsy. Some things should be left alone, she felt. I am inclined to agree. She lost a son, I lost a brother. That was all that truly mattered. I got dreadlocks in his honor, and had them for three years. I cut them off six months ago. He'd cut his own so he could move on with his life. It was time for me to let go, too.

Mike was another friend from Myrtle Beach. The first person to really push me to create, we had some rowdy times as well as some pretty manic ones. Mike believed in my words and he encouraged my vision. He was a wreck, albeit an especially talented one but psychoactive substances care little for skill sets. I didn't make it to his funeral. I was poor, had no car, and lived six hours away. I wish he knew that he inspires me every day. I hope his mom's okay. He'd be proud to know his brother is happy. Sometimes I think I hear him in my dreams, making one dumb joke after another, but that's probably just wishful thinking.

I miss my homies.

Fuck heroin.

He told me more than once that he felt like he was settling. The laundry, the food, the sex, the free place to live, the care for the kitten that shredded my blinds and my furniture- it was never enough. A match made in hallucinogenic heaven turned into a bad trip in such a short time.

These things he would say, often unfair and cruel. I knew this all along, so why did I walk on eggshells? I was so afraid that something already broken would crack that I allowed the forced removal of my spine. As I flopped over his lap and begged for support, he told me I should be happy with how flexible I’d become. Oh, fair enough then, I thought. I guess I’ll just drink a bottle of wine and not think about those burger joint waitresses that text him late at night. I can only imagine what he told them. Probably the same thing he told the girl he knew from high school, the one I naively let into my home. Boundaries? Sorry, don’t know the meaning of the word.

And it was MY home, though it made him angry when I said so. Sorry buddy, but a name on a lease does not a partner make.

A couple hundred bucks on the first of the month, and the rest went to beer and trading card games. What’s that? You need money for a super rare card? For a deck you’re going to take apart and never use again? What happened to your check? Oh, it went to Sierra Nevada and magic mushrooms? Oh yeah sure, good thing I make enough to pay electric on my own...no, no, that’s okay, I’ll get the cat food, too. The fuck you mean, I can’t survive without you here? The iPad I got you “just because” says otherwise.

There was a time, for a couple months, I sent him back to his dad’s. I had parties, visitors, I came and went as I pleased. Had a friend stay with me, but she was more of a wreck than I could have ever fathomed. Familiarity can be blinding.

After Allie left my home in destruction, and the infestation took over, he was there. The night her pill-addicted boyfriend broke into my apartment window looking for her, my sorta-kinda-not-really-ex-boyfriend had convinced me to let him stay the night. But I was the one who sent the addict from my home as he slept, lulled into his dreams by weed and wine. For sake of ease, I told the cops he was my boyfriend, and our toxic cycle began once more.

My mom’s dad fell sick, and I was gone for weeks to help the family. He yelled, angry that I was not back yet, and mocked the hospice nurse’s predictions. Papa died the day after I returned home. My father’s mom passed less than two months later. In my grief, he considered only himself. How dare I inconvience him by wanting to stay at Grandma and Papa’s house on the night of the funeral? What was I thinking, making him turn off the Xbox to come pick me up from work after my Grandmommy left this earth? What a ridiculous notion, going to your partner in a time of need. After a much-needed vacation with some brutally honest friends, I sent him on his way. The hole he left in the closet door let me know he wasn’t going without a fight.

After he left, I drank merlot during the day and watched Star Trek marathons in my underwear. If I wanted company, I had some. If I wanted to be home alone and listen to music undisturbed, I was free to do so. I stayed out all night (sometimes) and spent time with the friends he never liked. Free? Definitely. Destructive? At times. I was willing to take anything that came with the promise of not being judged by someone who only loved me part-time.

My apartment became a sanctuary again. I was no longer afraid of what I would find when I walked through the door. Even still, there were too many memories in those walls and six months later, I left to get back to my roots.

He tried to stick around, under the guise of friendship. But shady characters never quit shady dealings and though I was no longer in love, he still found a way to get under my skin. A few lies and a twisted story later, I knew had to wash my hands clean. Our mutual friends could believe what they wanted. I knew they’d picked their sides long ago, despite their awareness of his patterns of behavior.

His relationships went the same way every time, they said. They were disappointed in him, they said. Yes, we heard the verbal abuse and yes, he said really awful things about you while you were together, and wow, I can’t believe he got physical with you, are you sure it wasn’t just playfighting? He’s still just such a good friend, ya know?

Familiarity is not only blinding, it is also comfortable.

Six years later, many of these events are still quite vivid. Thankfully, the situation no longer rules my waking thoughts. The person I became turns my stomach to think about. Toxic love can break even the strongest of wills and bring out the ugliest sides of the self. The old wounds that opened with every partner after just left more scars, some more visible than others. It never got as bad as it did with him, I’d never allow that to happen again. But old habits die hard, and the same things that I saw in him, I found in other partners time and time again. When you spend so much time trying to love someone else, sometimes you fail to realize that you’re not loving yourself. The hurt builds on itself and it can be a tough structure to knock down.

I would not wish toxic love on anyone. Even relationships that don’t last shouldn’t have to go down in flames. The concept of peaceful un-coupling seems so foreign to me given how many love affairs have blown up in my face.

I’m married now, with a baby on the way. But if it weren’t for all the muck I had to wade through, I don’t think I would be able to fully appreciate just how beautiful of a life I have now. My husband and I both came to the relationship with deep wounds, and even though unpacking our pain has been incredibly difficult, we have been able to heal immensely with the support and honesty given to us by the other person. Finding a partner who is willing to work with and not against you is not a hopeless endeavor. In many cases, it just takes time. Time to be with yourself, time to figure out what you need, want and deserve, and time to heal from the wounds. Self-love and appreciation is the goal, everything else will follow in its footsteps.

I’d like to pick up Magic: The Gathering again. I genuinely liked the game, and sometimes breakups have a way of ruining even the most trivial of things. The ex from six years, he took all the good cards with him. I didn’t fight him on it. I had no energy left. But I’m a big girl. I could build a new collection on my own if I so choose.

Although, I could just learn a new game altogether. I’ve spent enough time living in the past.

And besides- I did, after all, marry a huge Yu-Gi-Oh! fan. Wouldn't want to let that go to waste.